


Like Headless Chickens

by gaytriangle



Series: My True Love Gave To Me... [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Elia Martell POV, Elia has agency because I love her, F/F, F/M, First Meeting, Harrenhal, Knight of the Laughing Tree - Freeform, Lyanna has personality because I tolerate her, Multi, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Rhaegar is himself and we put up with him, Tourney at Harrenhal, fluff?, its cute tho, lets go with, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:25:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/gaytriangle
Summary: The meeting that would send the whole realm into uproar began quietly. It began a little something like this.





	Like Headless Chickens

Elia didn’t like her husband. 

In all honesty, very few people did. He had a tendency to dwell in dreams until he forgot to live. He didn’t care at all for his swords or armour, until his prophecy proclaimed him a great warrior, at which point he worshipped the Warrior like it was the end of days. For Elia, who had always struggled with her own frailty, he was infuriating. 

And yet she loved him. She loved his angelic harp, cherubic smile, and the tiny smirk that built in the corner of his cheeks when he landed Arthur on his ass. She even loved his haunting purple eyes and those seven damned prophecies he always spoke about. She had raged the first time she heard them. How in the seven hells could Rhaegar justify abandoning her, just because she didn’t have ice running through her veins? Slowly, glacially slow, she had come to accept that just because Rhaegar wanted a child with the blood of the first men didn’t have to mean she wasn’t enough for him. She was still his wife. 

And then they met Lyanna. In those days, it was impossible not to love the She-Wolf of Winterfell. She wasn’t beautiful, it’s true. All gangly limbs and an unfortunately long face that made her resemble a newborn foal more than either of the graceful royals that were so fond of her. Elia, on hearing that complaint from her wolfs lips, would place one dark finger under her chin, tilt it up, and place her smile over Lyannas lips. “We have enough outer beauty for three, dear. All you must bring is your fire.”

Some days, Elia believed that Lyanna was the fire to her and Rhaegars ice. The Dragon Prince was fierce, smooth, utterly imposing in a way alien to all other Westerosi. His Sun Princess was delicate, an impossible beauty contained in a fragile smile. Yet Lyanna was fire made wolf, smooth and sensuous once she had been coaxed into flame, never ceasing, never letting either of her spouses hold her back. 

That tourney at Harrenhal, Lyanna had rode into Elias tent at dusk. The wolf stood head and shoulders over the Dornishwoman, yet she looked shy and downcast, an utter contrast to her impressively foolhardy stunt on the tourney field only the day before. “I believe these are yours, Your Grace,” she murmured. She wouldn’t meet Elias eyes to see the amusement in them. “And why is that? Our silver prince gave them to you, after all.” The calm and measured tone made Lyannas eyes dart up, and her posture turn beseeching. 

“Take the flowers, Your Grace.”  
“My husband fought for you, my lady, there is no reason I should.”  
“He’s your husband! They aren’t mine!”  
“And yet he left them on your lap.”  
“Please take them. It’s a dishonour on your house if you don’t.”  
“Says who?”  
“Ned!”

It was at this that Elias composure shattered, and she began to laugh. It took her several minutes to stop when she saw the mixture of offence and exasperation on the other girls face. Once her composure recovered, Elia said “there’s the truth of it. I think your Ned is more hurt by this than either you or I, Lyanna. My husband would never bring you into the fold without my approval. And I desperately approve of you, Lady Lyanna. Or should I say, Ser Laughing Tree?”

The shock on Lyannas face became something more heated in that moment. Yet, alas, Rhaegar chose that moment to return. “Lyanna! Eddard is searching for you. I think it best if you be seen emerging from somewhere that is not my tent.” He gave an appraising look at the compromising position his girls were in- they had moved closer, at some point in their argument, and stood so close together that Elia could feel the heat of Lyannas breath. The Northerner jumped back, scrambling to grab her things, a blush blooming on her cheeks and all the way down to her neck. She paused only to take one of the winter roses and loop it into Elias braid, who quickly coloured as well. 

“Lyanna,” the dornishwoman called, as the northerner was almost out of sight. She glanced back. “If you want to do this again, meet us at the weirwood on the last day of the tourney.” On seeing the confused look on her loves sweet face, Elia clarified. “Bring a Stark cloak, if you have one. My Targaryen one is still within my trunk.”

Lyanna grinned, a bolt of pure happiness that lit up her face, and then vanished into the gloom.

**Author's Note:**

> The justification for this as “three French hens” on my prompt list is this: there are three of them, they send the rest of the realm running around like headless chickens, and I love Elia Martell too much to leave her out of my prompt fill.


End file.
